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Where anchor'd,(doom'd to make no voyages more)
The rudders of our souls are put ashore,
And all the sails for ever furl'd.

A carpenter first cousin to the may'r,

Hight Master Screw, a man of reputation,

Got leave, through borough-int'rest, to prepare Good wooden lodgings for the Gallic nation—

I mean, for luckless Frenchmen that were dead;

And very well indeed Screw's contract sped.

His good friend. Death, made wonderful demands,
As if they play'd into each other's hands;
As if the Carpenter and Death went snacks;

Wishing to make as much as e'er they could,

By this same contract coffin-wood, For such as Death had thrown upon their backs.

This Carpenter like men of other trades, * •

Whom conscience very easily persuades,

To take from neighbours useless superfluity; Resolv'd upon an economic plan, Which shews, that in the character of man,

Economy is not an incongruity.
I know, some monarchs say the same—whose pulses
Beat high, for iv'ry chairs, and beds, and bulses.

For, lo! this man of economic sort
Made all his coffins much too short,
Yet snugly he accommodates the dead—
Cuts off, with much sangfroid, the head,
And then to keep it safe as well as warm,
He gravely puts it underneath the arm;
Making the dead man quite a Paris beau?
Holding his jowl en bras chapeau.



Copied from a Board over the Door of John Grove, of Wldte Waltham, Berks, England.

John Grove, grocer, and dealer in coffee and tea,

Sells the finest of Congo's and best ofBohea;

A dealer in coppice, a ineas'rerof land,

Sells the finest of snuffs, and the finest white sand.

A singer of psalms, and asrriv ner of money;

Collects the land-tax. and sells fine virgin's honey.

A ragman, a canier a baker of bread,

And a clerk to the living as well as the dead:

Vestry clerk, petty constable; sells scissars and

knives. Best Virginia and buckles, collects the small tythes; Is atreas'rerto clubs, and maker of wills: He surveys men's estates, and vends Anderson's

pills. Woollen-draper, and hosier; sells all sorts of shoes; With the best earthen ware ; also takes in the news. Deals in hurdles and eggs ; sells the best of small

beer, The finest sea coals, and 's elected o'erseer, Deputy surveyor; sells fine writing paper; Has a vote for the county—and linen-draper, A dealer in cheese, and the best Hampshire bacon, Plays the fiddle divinely, if I 'm not mistaken.


(fbese AC.)

When first to feel love's fire J Vck Straw begins, He combs his hair, and eweks his hat with pins, Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard, Flacks from his upper lip the bristly beard,


With soap and sand his homely visage scours
(Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers)
Tho sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs—
Next on his back the homespun coat he tries;
Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin bine.
And sews a spacious soal on either shoe.
Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain
Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane;
In thought a beau, a savage to the eye,
. Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh;
v Tobacco is the present for his fair,

This he admires, and this best pleases her—
The bargain struck—few cares his bosom move
How to maintain, or how to lodge his love;
Close at his hand the piny forest grows,
Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews,
With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,)
A hammer and an axe, his only tools,
By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms
Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms ',-*-
There sees the summer pass and winter come,
Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.



Some time ago, a dozen lambs.
Two rev'rend patriarchal rams, *

And one good motherly old ewe,
Died on a sudden down at Kew;

Where, with the sweetest innocence, alas!
Those pretty, inoffensive lambs,
And rev'rend, horned, patriarchal rams,

And motherly old ewe, were nibbling grass;

All the fair property of our great King—

Whose dcath did much the royal bosom wring.


?T\vas said, that dogs had tickled them to death; Play'd with their gentle throats, and stopp'd their breath.

Like Homer's heroes, on th' ensanguin'd plain, Stalk'd Mr. Robinson* around the slain:

And never was more frighten'd in his life. So shock'd was Mr. Robinson's whole face, Not stronger horrors could have taken place,

Had Cerberus devour'd his wile!

With wild, despairing looks, and sighs,

And wet, and pity-asking eyes,

He, trembling, to the royal presence ventur'd—

White as- the whitest napkin, when he enter'd!

White as the man, who sought king Priam's bed,

And told him, that his warlike son was dead.

• Oh! please your majesty'—he, blubb'ring, cry'd

And then stopp'd short— 'What? what? what? what? (the staring King reply'd)— 'Speak, Robinson, speak, speak, what, what's the hurt?'

'0 sire,' said Robinson again—

'Speak—(said the king)—put, put mc out of pain

'Don't, don't, in this suspense, a body keep'—

• 0 sire!' cry'd Robinson, ' the sheep, the sheep!'

* What of the sheep,' reply'd the king, 'pray, pray

* Dead, Robinson? dead? or run away?' 'Dcad,(answer'd Robinson;)dcad, dead, dead dead' Then, like a drooping lilly, hung his head.

'How? how" the monarch ask'd, with visage sad,. ; By dogs,' said Robinson, ' and likely mad;'

* The hind. G


'No, no. they can't be mad—they can't be mad— 'No, no, things ar'n't so bad—things ar'n't so bad.*

Rejoin'd the king— 'Off with them quick to market—quick depart; 'In with them, in, in with them in a cart—.

'Sell, sell them, for as much as they will bring."

Now to Fleet-Market, driving like the wind,
Amidst his murder'd mutton, rode the hind,

All in the royal cart so great,

To try to sell the royal meat.

The news of this rare batch of lambs,

And ewe and rams, Design'd for many a London dinner, Reach'd the fair ears of Master Sheriff Skinner, Who with a hammer and a conscience clear, Gets glory, and ten thousand pounds a year: And who, if things go tolerably fair, Will be one day proud London's proud Lord Mayor.

The alderman was in his pulpit shining.

'Midst gentlemen, with night-caps, hair and wigs; In language most rhetorical, defining

The sterling merit of a lot of pigs:

When suddenly the news was brought,

That in Fleet-Market, were unwholesome sheep;
Which made the preacher from his pulpit leap,

As nimble as ataylor, or as thought.

For justice panting, and unaw'd by fears,
This king, this emperor of auctioneers,
Set off—a furious face indeed he put on—

Like lightning did he gallop up Cheapside!

Like thunder down through Ludgate did he ride, To catch the man, who sold this dreadful mutton.

Now to Fleet-Market, full of wrath he came:
And with the spirit of an ancient Roman,

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